A LIMINAL AFFAIR

Well.... well.... well.... well....

Been a while would be the understatement of the millennium.

My last post, and one which had a very lengthy pause before that too, was when I felt compelled to honour the death, and distinctive life, of Prince.

Yet here we are. Again.

You may ask yourself, in your best David Byrne impression, what on earth has dragged me from the mothball ennui of literary isolation? What could possibly has awoken a desire to scribe my thoughts once more?

I'll tell you. I witnessed, felt, TASTED something so visceral, so awe-inspiring on Saturday night that I reached for my quill, licked the tip, and left some voice notes for myself to reference.

LIMINAL FEST. Words fail me, but I shall endeavour despite this glaring shortcoming.

A line up of dirgy bands the like of which has not been seen in our fair city for many a year, if ever. I'll start at the very beginning.

P+A+G+E+S are a relatively new band and have very quickly risen, like the cream of the crop that they clearly are, to the top of everyone's conscience. Finding yourself in front of any stage they occupy is to be immersed in their avantgarde, dreamlike droner doom. You do not watch and listen to them. You experience art... their art, their expression, and you drink it in until it drowns you. It is barren. It is brilliant. It is beautiful.

STRAGE are in the most literal sense of the word, veterans of SA's underground, bringing their unique drudge/sludge doom across without relying on words, and through a backline that shakes the ground on which you stand. Jarring, their monumental sound rolls in and fills the space like a black, relentless storm.

VASTVALE have made an immediate, and important impact. A band of such immense power, somehow they manage to deliver punishing riff after riff whilst remaining poignant and poised at the same time. Songcraft and stage presence is sheer quality, a measure of the combined talent and experience that make up this doom-laden phenomenon.

Closing the evening's entertainment, CONSTELLATIA delved into their usual intoxicating amalgam of ethereal atmospherics and tortured post-black metal, tying a neat bow on the night and sending everyone home on a high.

I have rarely enjoyed myself as much as I did on Saturday night. It was wonderful. As in "I was filled with wonder". Which is rare. And takes me (perhaps back) to a very much happier place...

DEARLY BELOVED, WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY...

...TO GET THROUGH THIS THING CALLED LIFE.

RIP Prince, the artist formerly known as many, many things. Genius, chief among these.

A good friend of mine commented that you couldn't get a word in edge ways with all the clamour from the trillions of Prince super fans the globe over. And he's right. But whilst no doubt he touched the lives of many, I reckon most of you would be hard pressed to mention songs beyond Purple Rain, Doves Cry, Kiss, Seven, or Cream. Rasberry Beret? What does Malema have to do with any of this?

Allow me to make a few simple observations:

1. Were it not for some thieving, conniving, bitch in high school I'd still have the majority of his collection. She was gorgeous so she got away with it.
2. Tom Jones is the anti-Christ for killing Kiss!
3. I actually owned a purple paisley button shirt in highschool.
4. I have an original copy of the Black album, which was recalled immediately after it was initially released.
5. The singular best cover I've ever seen performed live was when Andy Lund, Anton Marshall and Art Perreira did an impromptu rendition of 'Purple Rain'. Brought the house down.
6. I have a guitar named after one of his lewder songs...
7. Once, after enduring 'Purple Rain' being played over and over and over and over without respite (for days...) by Bennie in my army digs, I decided enough was enough and blasted him with some 'Gothic'. I returned to find all my belongings chucked out of the bungalow. Bennie was a dick. But I stole the chick he fancied, so fuck him...

Well that's it really. I was a big fan. Until I discovered Paradise Lost and my musical interests got decidedly darker. Nevertheless, to one of the greats, you may be gone, but your memory will live on, despite the fickle nature of social media's self appointed custodians.

"And I Saw An Angel Come Down Unto Me, In Her Hand She Holds The Very Key..."

Spread The Love. Let's Go Crazy.

TIP FOR THE LADIES. BUT JUST THE TIP...

HOW THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN!?!?!

You can tell that with age comes responsibility. And that with responsibility comes a great big ol' dose of being a boring ol' doos. Or at least that there's less time to cavort about on this digital playground than there used to be.

Anyway, things being as they are, I have to confess to being too busy to bother with the likes of you. I have been forced into the uncomfortable clutches of adulthood proper and other than the salary, am not enjoying it one bit. I even bought kerkskoene. Yeah, I shit you not. Talk about taking it to the next level. Had to attend a wedding this weekend so thought for once I'd like not to be the oke in steel cap Docs instead of a more respectable option. I chose the one wedding which proved my entirely wrong, but more on that later...

One thing that did get me wondering about life, love and everything else was a comment made by someone at this wedding. A young lady was lamenting quite vehemently about her lack of boyfriend. Stories of being completely ignored at the bachelorette party were punctuated with loud whoops of victorious delight at out-scrummaging the competition and securing the bouquet. Allow me to put this into perspective. We're not talking about an unattractive young lady here. She was perfectly fine in conversation and had no apparent physical blemishes or defects. Yet felt entirely overlooked in the romance department.

So I stumbled upon this little advice piece I wrote ages ago detailing the right way for young men to go about luring young women to give them the time of day. And when I checked the comments section, one very special person argued that I should do one from the female perspective. Now I'm no female and I actually dislike Mel Gibson quite a bit, but thought perhaps it would make a nice re-entry point to my soapboxing.

Here goes... How to nab a guy in 10 ways:
Hide your psycho. We all have a little crazy in us, but if you're aware of elevated levels in yourself, leave that for a surprise for later.
Did I say 10 ways? I overestimated my grasp of the mystery that is woman.
Also, I just now fully realise that I'm about to go flouncing about in a potential mine field like Captain Pants, so for the sake of my safety, think a list of dos and don'ts is excessively dangerous.
Basically, go and read the article linked above and be yourself. Perhaps a slightly kinder, more respectful and compassionate version of yourself. Oh, and alluding to having zero gag reflex may score you some brownie points.
Fuck, there I went and did it anyway. Now all the feminazis are gonna have my arse on a platter.
Apologies. In a world of equal opportunity and a level of political correctness threatening to strangle the last vestige of joy left in this forsaken world, you too may "nudge, nudge, wink, wink" your way to your own series of orgasms.

Anyway, clearly I'm a bit rusty. Hope you've all been taking your meds.

NGDG: The wages of sin is death. After deductions and taxes it's more like chronic fatigue.

Spread The Love. I'm Back. And I'm Worse.

SHE TURNED ME INTO A NEWT!

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I GOT A THONG THTUCK IN MY HEAD!

Sweet Baby Genius!

As we draw up our collective breath (thank you, Mister Stainthorpe...) and prepare for the final push, allow me to inject some levity into your dull existence. Well, I'll try but I make no promises. It's far too early in the morning and too late in the year for anything more than putting your head down and sucking it up. Hey, wait a minute!

It's December. The children have been let out of their institutional gaols and unleashed upon a citizenry unprepared for the incessant screaming. It's as relentless as the South Easter and even more annoying. I prefer the Fresh Prince's version of how summer time should go.

So what have you been up to? Getting your head down? Well, I am thrilled to report that the SUBVERS album launch surpassed even my lofty expectations and turned out to be a night of great success. And enjoyment. If you weren't there, then you'll be like that oke who feels a right kiepie when everyone else recounts that legendary time this or that happened - and all you can do is stand there nursing your Klippies 'n' cola around the fire dying of missilitis. To each and every one of the wonderful individuals who enjoyed the night with us - thank you from the bottom of our black little hearts! We trust and hope that you are enjoying the album! To our mates in ZERO STROKE, to Mercury Live and the team, thank you for everything - what a fantastic event!

Whilst we're on the subject of Mercury Live - the good people of Witchdoctor Productions have done it again! They brought FINNTROLL here for a good ol' dose of 'flagon n dragon' metal on Friday night and it was CRAZY! Bodies bouncing everywhere! Beer flowed. Fists pumped. Horns pierced the sky in choruses of HHFC metal synchronized unity and everyone had the time of their lives. Except this one doos. Who stood there watching, making sure his draft didn't get spilled, and enjoying himself quietly without giving too much away...

Not to be outdone in the ' beer n beard' department, Cape Town also hosted the Beer Festival this weekend and I was lucky enough to be the plus one of TheCraftBearResearcher. So I spent Sunday pinting away at a leisurely pace - what a pleasure! Luckily I was just drunk enough to ignore all the lascivious looks aimed at my long blonde hair and clean shaven face. I can't blame them. They haven't seen a beardless bloke in donkey's years.

Anyhoo, on with the dog and pony show. Almost there... Just . that . final . push . . .

Spread The Love. Vaalies In Mankinis!

BALLS DEEP AND MORALLY BANKRUPT.

Look Ma! No hands...

It's been a while...

You may ask yourself, in your best David Byrne impression, what the fuck I've been up to? And the truth, as much as it'll set you free after pissing you off, is rather less exciting than I would normally have you believe.

I've been working.
I've been suffering from an extreme lack of giving enough of a shit to entertain you.

Ok, let's rewrite that...

I've been working... extremely hard at getting an album ready for your listening pleasure.
I've been suffering for my art and now the time has come to share the results of this labour of love, blood, sweat and tears. Myself, Matt Daemon, Catcher In The Ry and our own intrepid producer who shall remain nameless for security reasons as well as not wanting to be part of anyone's lives in any way, have been slaving over this so that we may entertain you.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen! Allow me to take this opportunity to capitalise on my return from the online wastelands to announce the imminent release of SUBVERS's debut album, appropriately (if a little self-indulgently) named 'BLOODSTAINED EULOGIES'. Catchy, innit?

We have been working feverishly for, well, forever on this and the results are in! It's magnificent!

But don't trust my clearly very biased opinion on the matter. You are invited to decide for your very discerning self! Marking the occasion of the album's official birth, in a manner not unlike Mufasa holding Simba aloft like a proud parent finally showing off his progeny to the world, we, SUBVERS, will be performing the album in its entirety on Saturday the 21st of November at our favourite haunt, Mercury Live in Cape Town. But wait! There's more! If you click on the event NOW we'll throw in some extra surprises and even - if you've been extra good this year - a new song. Nothing but the best for our adoring fans! And to sweeten the pot a little - as if that's even needed - our friends ZERO STROKE will do us the honour of sharing the stage with us!

And speaking of honour, it is my distinct privilege to wish the indefatigably inspirational Neal Goldwyer a glorious, grandiose HAPPY BIRTHDAY! May your wishes - no matter how lurid - all come true.

Spread The Love. Lube Up For Some SUBVERSion...

THINGS THAT SUCK

Daphne had the most annoying tartar build up...

1. Eagles Nest - used to be the best thing since rainbow parties. I have been there time and time again since I was fortunate enough to discover this tucked away gem in the Constantia winelands. I've made a point to bring just about everyone who has ever visited me from out of town, and even some locals. I have had the best times there and enjoyed sterling service along with some wonderful wines. Then they put in extra benches and doubled their prices. And now... apparently you're not worth bothering over if you're not dressed in the latest fashion from the men's section of Queenspark and schmoozing about like you're a founding member of the Sunday Morning Stodels fraternity. It most certainly needs to be pointed out that the shocking service and attitude our very large table received on Sunday morning was unforgivable. If they had ANY idea of the spending power they collectively pissed off, they'd have choked on their own haughty indifference. Thanks a lot. Although I'm sure my business won't be missed, you've lost a life long devotee. 
2. The new ETV jingle - if you've heard the abomination that is the revamped channel jingle, you'll understand.
3. Life getting in the way of me getting to make music with my maatjies. Between meetings, deadlines and irritable bowel syndrome, I was denied my heavy hearted enjoyment of all things DOOMY last night.
4. Not being able to post as often as I used to...
5. The winter weather prohibiting me from doing my outdoor exercise.
6. Little shits breaking car windows out of spite.
7. Vacuum cleaners. Especially vacuum cleaners used early on weekend mornings by the kid next door obsessively cleaning his car.

The list is like my disgust for humankind. Eternal.

But today is actually NOT about things that suck.
Today is a glorious day! Filled with candyfloss clouds, rivers of booze, mountains made from the finest, softest boobs, and - at least in metaphysical ideal - the never ending blowjob. Things have gone full circle. You never go full circle! Hmmmmm...

Today is TARTY FARTY TEQUILA PARTY'S birthday!

Happy birthday, you wandering, wonderful gypsy!

May the universe smile down on you with as much warmth, grace, joy and love as you bring to those of us lucky enough to have you as a friend! Also, wine.

Spread The Love. Suck It. Wine Through A Straw.

MUSICAL CHAIRS... A LAST EXIT FOR THE LOST.

When you first decided to try and learn to play an instrument, what drove that desire?
Are you still beholden to those original feelings, or has it all become a little jaded?
Do you remember the first time you heard something so overwhelming, so emotive, so engaging that it awakened in you an urgency to create a sound of your own...?
Did you for one second think to yourself that it would end up as a continuous stream of begging for clicks, begging for attention, begging just to be heard...?
Do you make music purely for the love of collaborating and creating that which is pleasing to your ear? And heart?
Does that mean you have given up?
Does the refusal to participate in "the game" indicate resolve or laziness?

Never has there been a more apt name for a game than "musical chairs", a game built on the premise that there is an ever diminishing platform for all the arsehole participants every time the music stops.
We live in that very real game of musical chairs, my friends.
More and more arseholes, less and less chairs.
The music has stopped.
But is it for the last time?

Sure, we now have an almost infinite market, but no one gives a fuck. And as for giving dollars, well we all know the answer to that! Music no longer holds any value because what is deemed to be music by the general public today has no value. At least not musically. I'm not saying the Sex Pistols were misunderstood geniuses - far from it - but at least they stirred the souls of a generation.

What brought on this early morning mood? Well, for one thing I have been rediscovering the joy of making music at its most basic level (I don't have much above the very basic to start with...) and last night was one of those "shit-eating grin" sessions. As for all the negativity, well, that's the kind of stuff permanently on my mind.

Come watch my shit-eating grin threaten the material integrity of the top of my head on Saturday.

Spread The Love. Putting The "EAR" Back Into "HEART"

VOTE FOR PERDO...O'MALLEY

Yesterday was murder. Except for the dinner-and-a-show part right at the end.
Yesterday was corporate hell. I stood naked before the world, no piercings with which myself to defend.

Contrived, I know, but I have been concentrating on things other than my prosaic droppings for some time now. As I'm sure you've noticed. Most people say the rather more uninspiring "work's been hectic hey!" but I feel I owe you a little more than that, my dear genteel reader.

Let's see, what happened to me over the last while... I maked a cake again. Part III! The Hot Girlfriend was over the moon! No dogs were allowed to lick anything in the commission of this master piece and the only dish / spoon shenanigans were restricted to the inside of the dishwasher. The rest of the birthday celebrations involved me slaving over a hot stove or a hot braai - a lot. There may or may not have been some wine involved...

Ooooh! Ja! SUBVERS also played their first house party! As reported in my last post, we decided to get back to basics and break out the party tunes. Having set up our PA system and after undergoing the time consuming face painting make up ritual (it was a horror themed party), we mightily bestrode the corner of the lounge and rocked out like so many garage bands before us. If you don't know what I'm talking about, see just about any American college movie ever made. And now imagine us doing that!
It was wonderful! We pumped that place so full of smoke, you'd have sworn blind you were at a Sisters gig in the mid 80s! And of course we topped this particular cake with the cherry that is "Scotty Doesn't Know!", the ultimate house party classic. We may even have duped a few individuals into enjoying themselves...

But wait. That's not all! If you go down to the woods today, that means you'll have Saturday free. What! Did I say "Saturday"? And "free"? In the same sentence?
Yes, my fellatio-owed followers! Saturday SUBVERS once more soil the stage at Mercury with their particularly lewd and lurid style! And with the return of THE DAMNED CROWS, who join us on the night to celebrate a milestone with our good friend Captain Awesome, shit is gonna get torn up good and proper. So put on your party hat, pop on a discreet adult diaper, smear on some lipschtick and drag your gloriously gaggin' arse down to the one and only Mercury for a night of heavy breathing, heaving bosoms, and heavenly noise terrorism!

It's FREE!

Read that again.

IT'S FREE!!!

In keeping up with the Kardashians, and the rest of the world as it devalues music and everything else, including even the most modestly veiled morals, fuck it! Captain Awesome brings you this extravaganza of excess at no cost to your good self. And the bands are performing for him, for you, and for free!

CRAZY!

And speaking of crazy, I have a damn panti-gram to complete... hullo! Make with the little black g-strings!

On decks all night is the one, the only, the inimitable DJ Reanimator, spinning your choons of choice and keeping your booty bopping until the wee hours. And by wee I don't mean "incontinently drunk". Although I'm sure that is most certainly not ruled out...

 Spread The Love. Buy The Birthday Boy A Drink.

BANG! FUCK! I'M DEAD!

Pretend you're in your bedroom. Or Arties. And now pretend you're hearing James Hetfield bark out "I've got something to say!... " And now pretend that I indeed DO have something to say. And now imagine that the rest of this post isn't as awful as I anticipate it will be. Like St. Anger. Only without the insightful lyric.

It occurs to me that the older one gets, the more boring ones life. It's as if things finally come to a grinding semi-halt as we settle into a holding pattern of mind numbing boredom and merely trudge through the endless days until we are allowed to dull our affronted senses with the only socially sanctioned drug abuse on Earth. Booze it up while you clean the kitchen or do a load of laundry. Wake up feeling like you'd rather not, rinse, repeat. Adulthood. When did I become so wrung out?

At least, unlike so many of you, I have sufficient distractions in my life to convince myself that I still enjoy this dreadful existence. I get to use the horrible ennui as inspiration. And since I have no captive audience to satisfy, I can be as frustratingly obscure as I feel like. Which brings me to a lovely new ditty we're working on. You'll love it. It has it all! But you'll have to wait...

And speaking of things you missed out on, SUBVERS performed a secret surprise show on Saturday at a house party. Yes, thanks to the second half of the year's bookings disappearing in a puff of smoke, we decided to go completely old school! Oh what fun we had! Some of the guests even bobbed their heads and got into it. Whilst certainly not a stand out show in terms of grandeur or prestige, it was a highlight in terms of fun. And since it isn't likely to be repeated it was decided to include that ultimate of house party songs as the final number. Yup! You guessed it! SCOTTY DOESN'T KNOW! The goth metal version! One day we may be bribed with enough money/alcohol/projectile panties to release the video.

Anyway, I just thought I'd pop in and say hi. I'm sure you've missed me as I have missed dishing up the drivel. Problem is, I have no effing motivation and sweet fuck all on which to opine. It really is quite grown up of me.

Spread The Love. So What So What You Boring Little ****!

LOVE LOVE ME DOH!

There's a remarkable difference between "getting ahead" in life and "being obsessed with getting blowjobs" throughout your existence...

Apologies for neglecting you, my avid, rabid readership. I have been partaking in the former, although remain steadfastly committed to the latter. You see, work has been hectic. One of these days I may even start wearing kerkskoene. No! What blasphemy is that...

Anyway, as befits my advanced years, the powers that be have finally seen fit to grant me some responsibility and such, which means I now have to work my poor little fingers to the bone (I don't know how you mortals have put up with this day-in-day-out for so long) in grand anticipation of my big bump up the corporate ladder. It would be soul destroying if it didn't come with the added benefit of a much larger booze budget. Still, no excuse for being so absent.
Truth be told, I haven't had anything exciting to talk about. And ranting about the sorry state of our world or the despicable behaviour of our leaders is becoming a well worn path towards a sore arm next to a rotting horse corpse in the sun.

I could tell you that I had a lot of fun band rehearsals, but then you already knew that.
I could tell you about all the wonderful culinary delights and alcohol fueled antic, but that, like my cowboy head wear that once served time in a stripper's on-stage performance, is becoming "old hat".
I'm pleased to announce that my focused attempt at fitness is going well, but I'd be a bit of a hypocrite if I didn't admit to doing it for the sole purpose of allowing myself leeway to drink as much as I want to.

So I have been gone with the wind and no one seems to give a... oh no! I'm not falling for that one again! It's just such a pity I can't tell you about the incredibly awesome thing that's coming up. Not unlike The Kraken, only with less suckers attached. Although...

What am I on about, you ask. Oh nothing. Like tonight I think I'll rush home through the mire of unending traffic so I can spend all my time throwing money into the bottomless pit of my self indulgent "creative outlet". One day I may even find some appreciation. Who am I kidding. My arse looks nothing like the SS Kardashian so I don't stand a chance. Perhaps one day, with art being as fleetingly cyclic as it is, someone somewhere will click on the "pay $1" button and my life's ambition and selfless sacrifice will have meant something. Were my parents right after all? Nope. Fuck all o' ye's! My assault on your conscience and eardrums will continue unabated. Well, now that I have to return to the drawing board after Mercury's closure you may have to wait a while, but interesting plans are afoot, fear not. I mean, it's not as if I started a life of musical crime just to get the odd blowjob...

And on that rather offensively obscure note, just like that, he disappeared...

NDGD: (And boy, how I have missed his insightful wisdom) Get rich or die trying. Or run up massive debts and declare bankruptcy. More proof that rap is the Greece of music.

I missed you!

Spread The Love. Bring Me Wine.

UP SHIT CREEK...

This is not an indication that I am currently in any sort of turbulently troubled situation without the necessary means of propulsion with which to extricate myself. It simply refers to the fact that the office cat is away for a few weeks. For the first time in a long time I don't have to deal with shit first thing in the morning every morning.
And it's glorious.

I also had this wonderful tie-in that dealt with varying levels of something very important, but like so many inspiring ideas, stories, lyrics and passages of music, all is lost the minute one wakes up completely. The best invention ever would be a fully recoverable dream recorder. Imagine the porn!

This may have happened some time during last night's load-shedding nap. There you go with the inappropriate analogies again. Oh no! I said analogies! That's like Koos du Plessis's deluxe triple cd box set which he decided to call 'Trilogie'. My friends and I at the CD store found that hysterical. Which is misogynistic in itself.

I had this whole schtick planned, I promise. But now I'm sitting here with my thumb lodged in my arse, the metaphorical equivalent of an unhappy guest of Kathy Bates. I suppose it could be worse. Luckily I work inside in a nice warm comfortable office. Spare a thought for the poor bastards having to deal with the brunt of this weather.

Also, I've been listening to Anathema and Ministry all afternoon. How kak is that?
So after my nice post-work nap yesterday courtesy of Eskom, I set about rewiring my studio. I probably shouldn't have. Now I have the DoomTroops coming in and half the gear is festooned over half the house...

Wow. For the first time in my life I really have nothing to say. Don't you feel a little uncomfortable? Aren't you overcome with an ominous feeling of foreboding and dread? This is like the penultimate scene in a particularly gruesome horror film. Uneasy before the final killfest. Squirm, squirm...

Don't look behind you...

Spread The Love. Stalkers Need It Too...

WINE ME, DINE ME...

Ja you troop of delinquents.
Fear not, I mean that in the most endearing and affectionate way possible.

I suppose you want to hear what I've been up to...

Perhaps we should start with the birthday shenanigans. Or at least the latest batch, which went down in flames this last weekend in Hermanus. Once more we embarked on a wine fueled quest for glory, immortality and fresh air.

Friday night and it was brass monkeys, but we eventually got a nice fire going inside, followed by a swift lesson in exactly why my sister and I are not allowed to compete as a team playing 30 Seconds. The rest of the evening dissolved into an alcoholic haze which had no hesitation in reminding me the following morning that I have - indeed - gotten another year more awesome.
And as people of my advanced years and questionable lineage are socially obliged to do on Saturday mornings, it was off to the farmer's market. With no Biscuit Mall or Stodels in sight, we had to settle for the local equivalent. They even had their very own inappropriately Lycra-clad bicycle enthusiasts so we didn't feel like complete strangers. And, in keeping up with the Joneses, outrageous prices for fairly mundane fare. And hordes of elderly people straight from the pages of last year's Markhams brochure.

We decided to start with our adventure into the Hemel-en-Aarde wine route immediately. First stop, I can't even remember. All the places we went to, which included Bouchard-Finlayson, La Vierge, Ataraxia, Sumaridge and the one whose name escapes me, were beautiful. Windy, but beautiful. And the wine wasn't bad either. Astronomically priced is the new measure of true quality. Not. But it did mean the 3 lads who were celebrating their birthdays got to sit in the back of the 4x4 giggling like horny school girls in line to meet Motley Crue while the girls took care of the driving and general herding.

Needless to say the 2 hour attempt to start a decent fire upon arrival back at the homestead wasn't entirely surprising. But braai we did... Flame grilled steaks all round and they were pretty fucking perfect if I say so myself. (I have to, no one else ever does...)

Anyway, I won't bore you with the rest of the weekend's details, but I will tell you about my Monday. It was awesome! Have you ever had a day when you do nothing? Like absolutely nothing... I must have watched almost 20 episodes of Big Bang Theory.

Which brings me neatly to right here. Back at work and glad the sun is peeping its sheepish head out for a change. Unfortunately, with a return to being online comes the inevitable deluge of shitty news stories. Most disturbing of which is the sad news that Klein Libertas has burned down. What's up with the almost subliminal sabotage of our favourite live venues. I'm beginning to feel a little like an uncomfortable warm ninja turtle. The fundamentalist religious zealots must be having such a self satisfying snigger. Wait, what's that? Is that the sound of (in my wettest dreams) hundreds of you collectively nodding in agreement? Yeah, where the fuck exactly were you for the last while? 'Conspicuously absent' is not just a clever band name, you know...

I have to get back to being the first person without sin to cast stones all around this glass house, so if you'll excuse me...

Spread The Love. Computer Gigs Have Usurped Live Gigs.

NOW IS THE WINTER OF OUR DISCOTHEQUE.

Fuck coming...
Winter - the bitch - is here! The MERCURY has literally fallen.
From the face of my personal planet...

Picture it... Sicily, 1922...
A little perspective.

I have played innumerable shows at Mercury (by my standards). Even some at The Jam. Some wildly successful, some less so. I have spent even more time watching bands do their thing up on that great stage. I've hosted charity gigs there. I've won pub quiz evenings there. I lost a lot of pub quizzes as well. I've had deep discussions and shallow dalliances. I've DJed and worked as lighting operator. I've crawled out of there more times that I've walked out with my head held high, both almost too many to bear thinking of.

I love the very bricks the place is made of; I love the people more.

So when it was announced it would be closing its hallowed doors for the last time, I was angry. Angry and sad. My knee jerk reaction was to shout "Look what you've done! Look everyone, how your apathy has taken its toll! Look how a life ruled by the modern convenience of online commerce has ruined something so dear to us!"

But I was wrong. Whilst inspecting the log in my eye, I came to realise that the industry has made such a monumental shift away from what I consider acceptable in terms of how it chooses to engage with, and enjoy, the art on which it is based that I must seem like a doddering old fool in the quizzical eyes of the youth. If and when they manage to extricate their attention from whatever's trending on their umbilical smartphones.

The simple truth is that it has changed, no matter how hard we lament or grumble about the good ol' days. Youngsters are no longer knocking out shitty covers in their long suffering parents' suburban garages and then going on to make memorable guitar driven music. Everything is programmed on the latest iPad by smug entitled little shits. But that's the point. The youth drives the industry. And they've driven it away. I watch as everything I have ever held dear is being torn down stone by stone, only to be replaced by fleeting interjections of the more plastic variety. No longer the fortress it once was, it now resembles floating debris on an ever changing ocean.

But I digress. I started out with good intentions and then got my head stuck up my own arse once more.
The people of Mercury, the ones who made it the monument to local music it has become, are the true heroes. To Lisel & Lux, our eternal gratitude for running the show, show after show after show. To the magicians behind the desk: Ian, Jethro, Nishan, Izan, Lyndsay & Juan - thank you for the incredible sound and the unbelievably high standards you always adhered to, not to mention the way you always treated all the bands and musicians like family and royalty! And to Kevin Grant - the coolest lighting guy ever (along - of course - with Tequila Nick)! Thanks for making a bunch of ugly rockers always look awesome. A gentleman and a true genius! To Sidney (kisses, bitch!), Khanya, Wayne & Tasmin (and Ice) thanks for the great times and the not so great hangovers. To Reggie at the door - thanks for the smiles and friendly professionalism. And let's not forget Themba and Canaan, who were always on hand to keep the place spotless, thank you for your tireless efforts!

And last but certainly by no means least, Kevin Winder. (And Sean Wienand, who started the club with Kevin.)Thank you for everything you have done for our community, sometimes in the face of overwhelming adversity. You were the giant on whose shoulders we rode. Without your selfless service over the years, many a young band would not have graduated to the lofty heights of stardom some of them enjoy today. And some talentless hacks would never have got to perform on such a professional platform. We as a community of musicians, singers, dancers and drunks salute you! Your contributions to the betterment of all our lives will never be forgotten and your wry grin will always warm our hearts.

Not to mention them trousers...

Thank you from the bottom of our collective hearts.

Spread The Love. Raise The Roof.

GONE TOO SOON - NEVER FORGOTTEN.

I despise those who'd trade on tragedy. It's tawdry and unethical. And, in the case of some operators, it's despicably opportunistic. This is one of the main reasons I attempt to avoid glowing eulogies for famous people - especially on social media and particularly on here - which is a platform solely mine.

But that's quite possibly because I am far too cynical and full of shit. I do not want to be seen as one of these slimy "cool by association" types I so loathe. But then a friend of mine - upon asking me if I was going to write about the untimely death of South African porkrock legend, George Bacon, and getting the above answer - put it beautifully into perspective and told me I was being a doos.

I'd like to start by making it clear that we were not close friends. Yeah, a few drinks have been shared, and a few hearty laughs, but it is our association in the music industry that made us acquaintances. That is not to say that he didn't command huge respect from me, and the rest of the community. That much, in the last few days, is patently obvious. I remember the first thing I ever said to him went something along the lines of "Dude, I hate your music, but I have to tell you how well your CD is selling..." which, at the time, was a monumental departure from my all pervasive dick-headedness and my point black refusal to acknowledge anything other than My Dying Bride.

But write a tribute piece I will, nonetheless. George, as most of you will know, was possibly one of the most affable individuals ever to grace our little music scene, and well beyond. I think that was one of the endearing qualities of his that made him stand out among his peers, most of which were far too preoccupied with their own little successes to be anything other than arseholes, myself on top of the pile. His undeniable ability to enrapture a crowd, no matter how big or small, goes without saying. His infectious lust for life (as seen from the vantage point of a relative outsider) was the stuff of legend. And the longevity and astounding success of his band, Hog Hoggidy Hog, testament to the man's musical talent.

The sheer volume of communal condolence on Facebook attests to his enormous popularity, and rightly so, bar one or two contemptible parasites. In a rare moment of proper reverence, I would like to take this opportunity to join rank with the bereaved masses and add to their voice my own. To those George has left behind: his family, friends and followers, my deepest sympathies. The world is a poorer place for his untimely departure. To those of my friends especially who knew him well, cherish the many fond memories you have of this special, crazy, jumping, singing, laughing, smiling, hugging, loving man...

George, give Davey a hug for me.

Spread The Love. 

IF SCHRODINGER WAS AFRIKAANS...

...he'd be all for the human equivalent of turducken.

In a hundred years, the far away future, when humans have developed extra opposable thumbs and kneecaps have become obsolete; when we all have naguiltjie eyes and our olfactory systems have all but shut down altogether, it is my hope that - in the dusty archives of some preserved time capsule - some historian will dig out my hopelessly haphazard dribblings and be forced to read this shit the same way you are, my dear and faithful friends. You shouldn't be the only ones made to suffer so.

The future is indeed bright.

As opposed to the past. We hark back with fondness and wistful nostalgia to our youth, memories flood back at the soothing tones of a favourite record, or the violent pop of a riot gun. We say things like "Damn, they don't make things like they used to." There hasn't been a great song written in years. And be it a house constructed in the 70s, the Great Pyramids of Giza or whatever, they just don't build 'em like in the good ol' days... We live in a world where as long as you get your union mandated tea break, it matters not if the stadium you're helping build tragically collapses, taking with it countless lives. Seems the crack of a whip got shit done, and I don't mean in the confines of your bedroom/dungeon. Alas, we strive toward a mythical Utopia, and in so doing allow ourselves to be led astray by oppressors more insidious than the old slave masters.

But I'm getting way too serious for a Friday morning.

Aren't we all supposed to have our optimistic, jolly faces on?

I also have several serious theories on the current state of South African politics, but since the proletariat seems to prefer being led around by the nose in much the same way Tommy Lee Jones infamously used a pair of pliers in Natural Born Killers, perhaps it's best I kept my rather more enlightening opinions to myself. The true outrage is not what is happening, but the fact that it is being allowed to happen. The shocking truth is that no one has the wherewithal, or will, to oppose dear ol' Zuma. He will continue snuffling and gorging himself at the trough of plenty and there's fuck all you or I can do about it. At least that warmongering c*nt Obama is plundering resources outside his own borders - his actions, no matter how despicable, are enriching his people rather than impoverishing them.

Ok, so on to the good news. This weekend we escape the foul environs of the city and spend the weekend getting delightfully sozzled in the countryside. It's the Brother-In-Awe's birthday and we're going wine tasting, braaing, eating out, and nursing hangovers whilst wistfully looking poetic on a balcony with coffee in the mornings.

And that's just the natural progression from the dinner club of last night. Billed as an event in which "two buggers and a slap chick" would result in a possible Eiffel Towering, although there were high fives aplenty, it was a rather more moderate affair. The food, obviously, was off the charts. And when you feed this specific combination of people any wine at all, the conversations tend to get fairly raucous. So it was business as usual, except for my unplanned 6-in-the-morning stroll to fetch a car...

Spread The Love. It's Very Odd That You Can't Even.

AFFLUENT / EFFLUENT

It's my blog - it doesn't have to have anything to do with the content.

Although, there is a pavement in there.

People = Shit.
We all know that, thank you Corey Taylor.

But why, in the name of all you lot hold dear, in the area of Sea Point so close to Fresnaye every second car is a Lexus, is there shit strewn all over all the pavements? I hope it's dog shit...
Are we protesting our good fortune? Or do we really just not care enough; or mind that we're literally knee deep in the kak? Have we become so cut off from our surroundings that we kind of just accept this as the norm? Pass me my acoustic guitar, for fuck's sake. Morrissey was right.

Well, yesterday took a turn for the decidedly worse. I got so bored I actually couldn't even finish this worthless attempt at brightening your day (above). Colgate, I ain't. At lease SUBVERS had a ton of fun at band practice. It's awesome to be able to jam tunes you love with people who enjoy it as much as you do. Not to mention the other shenanigans of which you will no doubt shortly see the results. But I'm not telling...

Shall we then sink our teeth into the country's current ails?
First of all, I realise it's yesterday's news (see above), but that oke Zuma is taking everyone for a royal p**s again. It borders on admirable the way he gets away with it time and time again. The real criminals are you and I, the people who know better, complain, and somehow find ourselves powerless to do anything about it. Or him. Nkandla? Fuck you. We'll sweep that shit under the carpet. Again. Smirk Smirky McSmirk Smirk. Marikana...? Once again, delay tactics. That's the first and most blatant give away. If someone is in the kak they stall and stall (see what I did there?). Have you ever known a politician to deny him or herself the opportunity to tell everyone how shiny, squeaky clean, virtuous and innocent of any wrong-doing they are? Nope. Much as I despise trial-by-media, this bumbling buffoon is taking you all for the biggest tits and we sit meekly by and whinge and wail. Perhaps we'll inherit the earth after all. What's left of it.

While we're at it, you didn't reeeeally believe we just got handed the 2010 FIFA World Cup because we, like, totally deserved it, did you?

And with that, I have conveniently run out of shit to talk. But chin up (said the director to the starlet), and take heart in the sure knowledge that we're all working hard behind the scenes cooking up something utterly glorious for you.

And speaking of cooking, tonight we celebrate the commencement of my and my Brother-In-Awe's birth month. With a hearty slap-up at dinner club. Commander Conker will also be in attendance, as will his beautiful bride Rose Thorn, both of whom are also part of this salubrious celebration. This could get ugly. Especially when you add a pinch of Tarty Farty Tequila Party, a dash of Slappy, juuuust enough Hot Girlfriend, and allow the better half of the DSW to stir it all into a great big merriment pie.

Spread The Love. I Should Introduce You To Kim Some Time.

SPANKING SHOULD BE A SANCTIONED SPORT...

...in which I get to choose the spankees.

The world is crammed to capacity with geniuses.
Eskom implements loadshedding; every single person in South Africa chooses to inform every single person in South Africa that the parastatal power utility is mismanaged and struggling to meet demand. And that its all the fault of the ruling party, who have chosen to benefit financially from their sudden position of power, instead of heeding the warnings of the departing incumbents. How clever of everyone.
The weather - amazingly, and not at all against its natural course - turns a few degrees more nippy; mass hysteria and lamenting the likes of which were last seen at the Wailing Wall, and last Autumn.

Do you want to know who the government is REALLY letting down? The guy living on the street who has no heater. He can't turn it on to alleviate his shivering night, nor can he turn it off to spare the grid's embarrassment.

Get over yourselves and instead of spewing out redundant and self indulgent whining, do something positive. Enjoy a candlelit dinner. Plan ahead. Look into the cost of buying a UPS. Get a gas stove/light. This shit - no matter how terribly inconvenient to your precious sensibilities - is not going to sort itself out overnight. And pointing your accusatory little digits won't do a damn bit of good.
I'm not suggesting blind acceptance of something so blatantly incompetent, merely suggesting that your time would be better spent - and the community better served - if you rather did your bit to curb your own wasteful usage, or write a tune on your Grandpa's guitars. Actually, no scrap that last suggestion, it'll probably be awful and everyone will believe you to be a protest singer. And we're trying to get away from pointless complaining...

Last night The Hot Girlfriend informed me that I should complain less on this here virtual soap box of mine. And here I go, complaining about people who complain. Apparently it's far more enjoyable to read the irreverent stuff because there is an inherent humour in my incoherent rambling. She probably has a point, but as I pointed out over a delightful dinner (she took me out - it was awesome!), these days adulthood is taking its excruciating toll on my free time and my mood at work. So now I only post something when I have something to say, and that invariably includes anything to do with music, or whatever pisses me off. Long gone are the days of me entertaining you with tall tales of my death defying feats of athletic accomplishment (jogging) or the hysterical highlights of a life lived by the litre and all the near fatal flings with the poisoned chalice of chance (drinking). Ok, I've give you that one. That last list of seemingly pointless words really does make me look like the proverbial doos that's trying way too hard, and for that I apologise. I'm clearly out of practice. How about I promise to lighten up, eh? Just promise to keep reading! Otherwise the internet and the Universe are rendered entirely pointless and the last thing you'll read here is a suicide note...

I'd probably get a handful of Facebook likes for that...

Yes, so I got treated to dinner out last night. Perhaps as a reward for having to endure the cliched pain of shoe shopping with my woman. Thankfully it ended well, as the new boots are really awesome, but not before I had an Al Bundy moment with the unfortunate shop guy.

Anyway, back to the land of nod. I finally got my car back from its second opinion, since my current car doctors have been unable to diagnose what ails the poor thing after 4 attempts. So far so good. This time next year I hope that all the frustration of this year pays off, and I can transform into one of those annoying, smug arseholes who drive like dicks because their German-engineered cars cost more than my house. It won't be a huge leap, as I already identify with them. I just don't have the tools yet.

So in the spirit of being less serious, here is an appalling joke.
Sing along if you know the tune...

There were four in the bed
And the little one said
"Ag nee man fokof!
Ek will ook my beurt he om die hot een te spyker!"

Spread The Love. We Could All Do With Some More. It's Free To Give.

SWEET EPILEPTIC SATAN!

Yes, folks, this is my... ta ta daa daaaah! Six hundred and sixty sixth post!

Everything is kak! Everything is in a shambles!
I may as well have started like with 'Fly On The Windscreen'.

Actually, the only kak here is that which is coming out of my mouth. Via my keyboard. Obviously.
Life is peachy and I have very, very little I can (even) complain about.

Just don't get me started on the music biz.

I declared earlier on FB that I wanted to start a band called LIKE, SHARE, FOLLOW & THE SELFIE SCHTICKZ. Because having spent my entire adult (straight face, I swear) life trying to make something of substance other than my frequent toilet breaks, I have almost reached a point where I would like to see some return for my constant effort. Hence my suggestion to form a group or become an artist with seemingly no talent and no end to back-end support. And I'm not talking about adult diapers either. I also want to mutilate a popular phrase and splooge it all over a second rate beat while looking like a smug schmuck. I already have a crippling sense of superiority, so I'm halfway there!

I even have proposed song titles...

Bitch stab me in the back (wit' a swagger)
Don't poke me, don't poke me (in my hashtag)
Ain't got no big butt, but I still got mi'yinns.
Shitz gettin' Cray-Cray(YOLO) - multicolour mix

And then in a moment of ultimate blasphemy, I'd do a Cure cover... "Pictures Of Me"... but that would be a Jack Parowdy.

As you have no doubt discovered by now, I am having a slow day at work. And on top of that, I have loadshedding to look forward to tonight halfway through band practice. Lovely.

Actually, perhaps a barf-metal band would be a better idea. You know, the kind that concerns themselves mainly with themes of partying and drinking. I could write such celebratory gems as "Bladder Betrayal" and "Legions Of The Legless" and tour the world getting ironically drunk.

Anyway, suppose I'd better stop now before someone (me) gets hurt.

Spread The Love. It's All In The Eyes.

THE PENIS MIGHTIER THAN THIS WORD.

This is not what FR David was on about.

Words are meant to be all powerful. They're supposed to render ones opponent impotent in the face of their sheer magnitude and overwhelming force. Why then, has society chosen to upgrade its arms and devalue the written word so dramatically?

And by the written word I, of course, mean lyrics to songs. And now my train of thought has come to shuddering halt and sommer derailed itself...

My brain has most certainly atrophied to the point where I can no longer follow through on any particular chain of reasoning. Perhaps it's because we live in a world where what passes for literature is the equivalent of what passes through ones rectum after binging on McDonalds. And it's just as nourishing for your soul. Don't get me wrong. I'm no high brow literary man with leather-elbowed tweed jackets. I own Wayne Rooney's autobiography for fuck's sake. But I draw the line at "I can hazz cheezburger". And the subsequent demolition of language in all its glorious applications.

I also own a leather bound edition of The Necronomicon, although I struggle with that one. Also, for the real prose-nuts, an author bound first edition of Bayeau (as if to make my point, I'm not entirely sure of the spelling - darn you, socky ironicalness!). If you have to ask, then you're one of the many left out of the loop.

So why am I banging on about something most educated people have already lamented ad nauseum? I saw a link that asked 'Why can't we read anymore?" and instead of reading it, I chose to fill your lives with my pointless drivel. Aren't you excited? Now you can go and spend your lunch hour in a queue for Burger King (or any other establishment with wifi) and entertweet yourself with bytesized glimpses into the lives of some of the most inconsequential individuals ever to draw breath. Do not forget to buy the branded lunchboxes!

My poor kids, should I one day afflict the Earth with the result of my heaving procreation attempts, are going to be the least popular kids in school!

Fuck this - I'm going to "whooosah!" for the rest of the afternoon and have Anathema's latest offerings on youtube soothe my soul. If only there was genuine rest for the wicked. I'd even settle for just a nap and dial back my diabolical plans a notch...

Spread The Love. Wield Your Mighty Word Sword (Excalibur Mark)